The transition from the violent, screaming atmosphere of the Vermillion Belt to the damp, yeasty air of the alley behind "The Rusty Spoon" was enough to give anyone sensory whiplash.
Lencar stepped out of the spatial ripple, his boots hitting the familiar cobblestones. The violet lightning and magma geysers were gone, replaced by the mundane sight of overflowing trash bins and a stray cat hissing at his sudden appearance.
He leaned against the brick wall for a moment, letting the adrenaline fade. His skin still felt tight, a lingering reminder of the hellish heat he had subjected it to, but the Breath of Yggdrasil inside the Vault had already topped off his mana. He felt electric, vibrant, and dangerous.
"Deactivate," Lencar whispered.
He mentally flipped the switch. The aura of the Stage 4 powerhouse vanished. The predator's glint in his eyes dulled into the weary look of an overworked teenager. He stripped off his travel gear—the mask, the heavy cloak, the reinforced bracers—and shoved them into the Void Vault. In their place, he pulled out his grease-stained apron and his simple tunic.
He wasn't the Heretic right now. He was Lencar, the potato peeler.
He walked through the back door of the kitchen.
"Order up! Where is that soup?!" Rebecca's voice was pitched high with stress.
The lunch rush was in full swing. The kitchen was a chaotic ballet of steam, shouting, and clattering pans.
"Right here," Lencar said, stepping into the line seamlessly. He grabbed the ladle and filled three bowls with fluid precision. "Table four needs bread. Table six is asking for water. And Marco is trying to climb the pantry shelves again."
Rebecca spun around, her hair flying. "Lencar! You're back early!" The relief on her face was instant, softening the hard lines of stress around her eyes. "Thank God. I thought I was going to lose my mind. Get on the vegetables, please!"
"On it."
For the next three hours, Lencar lost himself in the rhythm of manual labor. It was grounding. Chopping carrots didn't require tactical analysis. Washing dishes didn't require killing intent. It was simple, honest work, and after the metaphysical weight of the Kiten Dungeon, Lencar found he enjoyed the simplicity.
By late afternoon, the crowd began to thin. Usually, they would stay open for the dinner service, but today, the atmosphere shifted.
The owner, a burly man named Gorn who usually sweated profusely and yelled about profit margins, came into the kitchen. He wasn't yelling. He looked pale, wiping his hands nervously on a rag.
"Rebecca, Lencar," Gorn said, his voice low. "Close up."
Rebecca blinked, holding a tray of dirty mugs. "But sir, it's only four. The dinner crowd—"
"I said close up!" Gorn snapped, then softened. "Sorry. Just... lock the doors. Flip the sign. We have... visitors."
Lencar stopped scrubbing a pot. His eyes narrowed slightly, though he kept his face blank. Visitors. Gorn is terrified. This isn't a health inspector.
"Visitors?" Lencar asked innocently.
"Just do it," Gorn hissed. "And bring the kids to the back. They want to speak to everyone."
Rebecca looked at Lencar, fear spiking in her eyes. Lencar gave her a subtle nod—it's okay, I'm here—and moved to help her usher the confused customers out.
Once the front door was locked and the blinds drawn, Gorn led them to the private dining room at the back of the establishment.
"Luca," Rebecca whispered to her sister, her voice trembling slightly. "Take Pem and go wait outside with Marco. Play a game. Don't come in until I tell you."
Luca, a sharp girl of twelve, sensed the tension immediately. She nodded, grabbing the toddler Pem's hand. "Come on, Pem. Let's go check the rain barrel."
Marco, who was nine and usually full of energy, looked at Lencar. Lencar winked at him. "Go on, Marco. Guard the perimeter."
Marco puffed out his chest and marched out.
Once the children were gone, Lencar and Rebecca followed Gorn into the room.
There were three people sitting at the table. They looked absurdly out of place in the rustic, grease-stained eatery.
They wore long, pristine robes of deep blue velvet, trimmed with silver thread. On their chests, they wore the insignia of the Magic Knights, but not a specific squad crest. Instead, they wore the symbol of an eye overlaid with a magnifying glass—the Department of Magical Forensic Research.
"Sit," the man in the center said. He was thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and hair slicked back so severely it looked painful. He didn't look like a warrior. He looked like an auditor who enjoyed finding tax fraud.
Gorn sat, sweating. Rebecca sat, clutching her apron. Lencar sat, slumping his shoulders and looking at the floor like a nervous peasant.
"I am Senior Investigator Aris," the man said, adjusting his glasses. "These are my associates, Bel and Kora. We are conducting an inquiry regarding... irregularities in the Nairn region."
"Irregularities, sir?" Gorn squeaked. "We pay our taxes! I have the receipts!"
"This is not about taxes," Aris said, his voice dry as dust. "This is about magic. Specifically, unregistered, high-level magical signatures detected in the vicinity."
He pulled out a notebook. "Over the past two weeks, several groups of wanted criminals—the Red Clay Bandits, the Iron-Eater Brothers, and others—have vanished. We have found their remains. Or rather, the ash that used to be their remains."
Rebecca gasped softly. Lencar kept his face mask of confusion perfect.
"Ash?" Lencar asked, injecting a tremor into his voice. "You mean... someone burned them?"
Aris looked at Lencar. His gaze was sharp, dissecting. He was looking for mana. He was looking for confidence.
Lencar projected the aura of a Stage 6 mage—weak, unrefined, and terrified. He let his hands shake slightly on the table.
"Burned, crushed, sliced, and erased," Aris corrected. "The forensic evidence suggests a highly volatile turf war. Or a single, extremely dangerous entity clearing house."
The woman, Bel, leaned forward. She held a small crystal orb in her hand. It glowed faintly.
"We are interviewing all businesses that operate late hours or have connections to travelers," she said. "Have you seen anyone unusual lately? Strangers in cloaks? Mages buying large quantities of supplies? Anyone acting... suspicious?"
Lencar swallowed hard. They are fishing. They have no leads, only questions.
"We see a lot of travelers," Lencar stammered. "Merchants. Drunks. But... nobody scary. Just hungry people."
"What about you?" Aris pressed, staring directly at Lencar. "You are not from Nairn. Your accent is from the Forsaken Realm. Why are you here?"
"I... I failed the Magic Knight Entrance Exam," Lencar admitted, lowering his head in shame. "I couldn't go home to my parents as a failure. So I came here to find work. Gorn gave me a job washing dishes."
"He's a good boy," Gorn interjected quickly. "Works hard. Peels potatoes faster than a machine. He sleeps in the attic next door. He's barely a mage, sir. Weak wind magic. Just enough to dry a plate."
Aris stared at Lencar for a long, uncomfortable minute. Lencar held his breath, letting his heart rate spike naturally to simulate fear.
Finally, Aris scoffed. "A dishwasher. Clearly not our suspect."
He stood up, snapping his notebook shut. "Very well. If you see anything—strange lights at night, spatial distortions, anyone selling high-grade magical artifacts—you are to report it to the local garrison immediately. This 'Cleaner' is dangerous. Do not engage."
"Yes, sir!" Gorn nodded frantically.
The three investigators swept out of the room, their expensive robes swishing over the dirty floorboards. They left a lingering scent of expensive cologne and bureaucratic menace.
Once the front door clicked shut, the tension in the room snapped.
Gorn collapsed into his chair. "Sweet mana... I thought they were going to arrest me for the illegal wine shipment from last month."
Rebecca let out a shaky breath, turning to Lencar. "That was terrifying. 'Erased'? Who could do something like that?"
Lencar looked at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes. The fear of a world she didn't understand, a world where people could be turned to ash in an alleyway.
"I don't know," Lencar lied smoothly. "But they're gone now. We're safe."
"Be careful going home," Gorn said, waving a hand. "Take the main streets. I don't want my best workers getting snatched by some forensic ghost."
"We will," Lencar promised.
He stood up. He felt a cold weight in his stomach. It wasn't fear of the investigators—they were incompetent compared to him. It was the realization that his actions were rippling outward. He wasn't just a ghost anymore; he was a phenomenon. And phenomena drew attention.
"Come on, Rebecca," Lencar said gently. "Let's get the kids. I'll walk you home."